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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23978752">Messes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentexplorer18/pseuds/silentexplorer18'>silentexplorer18</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Originals (TV), The Vampire Diaries (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Arguing, Blood, F/M, Mild Language, Minor Violence, Panic Attacks, Pre-Relationship, You and Kol don't get along</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 19:08:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,220</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23978752</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentexplorer18/pseuds/silentexplorer18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Kol makes a mess before you come home from work.  Things get heated quickly.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kol Mikaelson/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Messes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is just a little blurb I wrote off a request over on <a href="https://silentexplorer18.tumblr.com">tumblr</a> with the lines: "Are you going to stop me?" "I can't breathe." and "Why can't I hurt you?"  This also isn't proofed much, so many apologies for any grammatical errors.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“God dammit, Kol!” you shouted, hand reaching to run over your head - a nervous habit - before dropping as you remembered the mess coating it.  “You can’t keep killing people in here!”</p><p>His back was to you, but he knew enough to know you were still in your work clothes, the stupid little red apron - all frilly decoration - your boss made you wear front and center.  The blood on your hand would match that now, doorknob soaked with the splatter.  He hadn’t <em>meant</em> to kill them.  Okay, he did.  But he really didn’t need you prattling on about it.  It was bad enough he was staying with you, the stupid vervain on your wrist and in your tea making you impossible to control.</p><p>“I can’t keep spending every Saturday cleaning up the messes you leave behind.  The booze is bad enough, and the random clothes from all the girls you keep bringing in,” you sigh, but it’s laced with disgust.  “But you can’t keep expecting me to clean up dead bodies for you.  That was never part of the deal.”</p><p>He wanted you dead.  It had been five months of your incessant yelling and he wanted you <em>dead</em>.  You fought tooth and nail against him at every step.  He just wanted to be rid of you.</p><p>There was a thunk as you jumped over a body, an irritated sigh as you found the four more stacked in front of the couch that you hadn’t noticed before.</p><p>“I’m letting you stay here because I owe Elijah, not because I <em>want</em> you here.”</p><p>“What a surprise,” he muttered, the comment wry.  “And here I thought you’d invited me into your home for my looks.”  Turning, he caught sight of you.  Your hands were folded across your chest, foot tapping against the bloodstained carpet.  “What?”</p><p>“Clean it up.”</p><p>His expression faltered, quickly shifting from taunting to irate.  “What?”</p><p>“I <em>said</em> clean it up.”</p><p>Narrowing his eyes, he took a step forward.  “No.”</p><p>“I’m not your maid.  Do.  It.  Yourself.  You make the mess?  You clean it up.”</p><p>“No.”  And this time you could see the frustration blazing in his eyes.  Maybe it was your long shift at work or the aggravation with your manager’s rude comments, but it’s possible you stepped over a line you shouldn’t have.  He stepped closer, and you drew back, breath shuddering as your back hit the wall, head digging uncomfortably into the corner of a picture frame.  He’s right in front of you, eyes growing dark as he scanned across the expanse of your neck, settling on the spot you knew all too well to be your jugular.</p><p>Before you could blink, he grabbed your head, pulled it back.  His nose tracing along the skin, teeth just barely nicking the flesh.  But he couldn’t bite.  For the first time in his life, he couldn’t bring himself to bite.</p><p>So he pulled back, slamming his hand against the wall, watching you wince.  <b>“Why can’t I hurt you?” </b>he spat, stepping away.</p><p>“Because you promised Elijah you wouldn’t.”</p><p>That was true.  But he knew it wasn’t the real reason.</p><p>Every time he smelled that damn vanilla perfume on your neck, his whole body went weak for you.  He returned to the other side of the room, finding the nearly gone sunset out the window.  The distance helped, allowing the fire of loathing he held for you to slowly begin burning again, the impenetrable wall he protected himself with.</p><p>He heard you step off the wall, the faint flutter of your heart a symphony of all his greatest wonders.  Were you scared?  Flustered?  Needy?  He couldn’t tell by the beats alone, not when your kindness toward him waxed and waned each passing day.</p><p>The bumping sound of a body shifting had the bristles under his skin forming again.  You were insatiable in your need to <em>fix</em> things.  “What are you doing now?”  The words are more irritated than anything else, less biting than he meant them to be, but your answering sigh makes him feel he’s still made his point.</p><p>“Figuring out how to clean the stains off the floor.  Lest you forget, this is meant to be a <em>classy</em> house.”</p><p>“How could I forget?” he snarked, rolling his eyes.</p><p>But something was wrong.  You paused, eyes scanning the floor as you considered the mess before you.  “Kol?”  Your tone was too soft, too concerned.  He turned back toward you, gaze meeting your alarmed expression.  “There are only eight hearts on the floor.  Where’s the ninth one?”</p><p>He blinked, shifting to look at the bloody items strewn across the floor.  “What do you mean there’s only eight-”</p><p>And when he turned back, he knew why.  The knife was at your throat, hand under your shoulder like the woman was afraid you’d bolt, but you didn’t have the speed, nor stupidity, to try something like that.  You felt her breath, surprisingly calm, against your ear, fanning down your neck, across the blade at your throat.  Wincing, you felt it pierce the skin just barely.  And it was your time, it just <em>had</em> to be.  Because what kind of idiot invites a vampire into their home?  But it wasn’t your home, it was Elijah’s home.  He was just kind enough to let you stay.  And here you were gazing at Kol’s face - death incarnate - while you breathed your last breaths.</p><p>You jumped at the snap beside your ear.  Her body slid to the floor as the clatter of a knife crashed somewhere near your feet.  But you were too numb to care, mind reeling with the thought of everything that could’ve happened.  You could’ve died.</p><p>You were <em>normal</em>.  Shit like this wasn’t supposed to happen to people like you.  But it was.  You were living with vampires and tiptoeing past death every day and it was just too much.</p><p>Kol’s face was in front of yours, hands pressed against your shoulders.  “Are you okay?”  He sounds so level headed and it’s the farthest thing from his usual self that it almost derails you from your panic.  Almost.</p><p><b>“I can’t breathe.” </b> It comes out better than you feel, though still a little ragged, a little bit not right.</p><p>“You’re okay.  She barely scratched you.  You’re fine.”  His hands were dusting your shoulders, and if you’d dared to look into his eyes, you’d find the hint of worry placed there.  But you don’t.  Because it’s all too much and he’s just as bad as all the others littering your floor in immobile piles.</p><p>“I need to leave.  I need to get out of this house.  This isn’t- I never wanted this to happen.”  You turn, stumbling over the body by your feet before he catches your arm, eyes boring into your face.  You can’t tell what his expression means, too shaken to care.  <b>“Are you going to stop me?”</b></p><p>He lets go.  “No, I’m not.”</p><p>So you leave.  Because you can’t tell that his eyes are screaming concern and his hands are just itching to hold you and whisk you away from the death at your feet because for the first time he’s found something - <em>someone</em> - worth living for again.  You can’t tell that’s what he means by the jabs and the insults, so you leave.  And he drinks.  And cleans the stains on the floor.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading!  I hope you enjoyed!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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